


Wolfpacks and Witchcraft (or Why Being a Modern Day Witch Is Totally Not Magical), by Stiles Stilinski.

by Quintessentia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Derek is the alpha and he runs a pack full of teenagers, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Rating May Change, Witch!Stiles, also i took the teen wolf timeline and laughed in its face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessentia/pseuds/Quintessentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are way more 'crafts' involved in witchcraft than Stiles expected, everyone is sort of in love with Scott, werewolves make terrible friends, and Derek Hale definitely does not eat human beings, shut the fuck up Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolfpacks and Witchcraft (or Why Being a Modern Day Witch Is Totally Not Magical), by Stiles Stilinski.

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS, SO DON'T GET MAD AT ME IF YOU DON'T EITHER. There is a document sitting in my fanfiction folder full of half assed, half written Teen Wolf fics and this was the one that actually showed promise. Basically all you need to know is that Derek is still the alpha, no one important has died, and timelines mean nothing to me. Seriously, I mean it. Malia, Liam, and Kira are in school with Jackson, Erica, and Boyd. That's how much this timeline is fucked up. Just roll with it and appreciate all the pack bonding. I have no shame. Or a recognizable plot, apparently.  
> I don't think I need to include any warnings for the first part (and yes, this is only the first part), unless you count allowing me access to a word processor and the internet. THIS IS NOT BETA'D.

Stiles is really good at magic. Really good. Seriously.

Okay, so maybe there was that one time he accidentally set fire to Jackson’s $200 sweater while trying to test a spell that removed all scent from an object, but he hadn’t done it on purpose and Jackson could handle being taken down a notch or two. Stiles will deny to this day that he’d laughed uncontrollably for a good half hour after seeing the look on Jackson’s face when Stiles had bungled the spell, but he’d hidden behind Scott and Jackson hadn’t killed anyone as a result, so it couldn’t really be called a tragedy.

He’s also responsible for that time he’d been messing around with something new and caused Isaac’s hair to grow at least ten feet long before he’d managed to stop the effects from turning his friend (affectionately dubbed ‘fluffywolf’) into a modern day Rapunzel. Isaac had been good natured about it though, and Stiles still has all ten feet stashed away somewhere just in case he needs curly wolf hair for future spellwork or something.

He may have also screwed up a voice changing spell so badly that he’d given Lydia helium inhalation inspired vocal cords for 24 straight hours, but he avoids talking about that one. Lydia Martin is scarier than Jackson or Isaac any day, and she doesn’t have claws and fangs to eviscerate him with.

So yeah, being a witch is exhausting and even though Deaton says he has a knack for it, Stiles wonders why there are never any witches in the history books who accidentally dye people’s hair purple using spells that initially have nothing to do with hair or the color purple. Maybe it’s because all the ones stupid enough to get caught were burned before they could get to that level of humiliation, or maybe Stiles is just the most creative magic user to be born in centuries. He likes the latter theory a whole lot more, to be quite honest.

Privately, he often wonders to himself exactly why a guy like Deaton thought he’d be most useful to his pack with a plethora of magic spells and curses at his fingertips, when it’s clear that Stiles has probably caused more trouble using his ‘spark’ than he has anything else. Derek looks like he wants to string him up by his entrails at least once a day (because his life is such that he sees Derek often enough nowadays that Stiles can recognize that look and invoke it on a regular basis), and that particular sentiment is nothing compared to the time he cursed Scott into singing everything for almost a week and the entire pack was practically lining up to murder him.

In his defense, he’s saved a life once or twice using an appropriately timed chant or a hex he was smart enough to set up before things really went to shit, but magic is a hit or miss type of deal and Stiles misses the target way more often than he hits it. Still, he has to be good for something and he really fucking likes knowing that he can defy nature sometimes, even if he gets chewed out for it more often than not.

It’s cool watching himself clean rooms without lifting more than a finger or two, and he hardly ever burns dinner now that he cooks using both his magic and the skills he got from his mom, his natural clumsiness in the kitchen prevented from being a disaster by just a pinch of supernatural mojo. He’s never going to have claws or fangs or super awesome strength, but the bite probably wouldn’t take to him anymore, not now that there’s magic juice running through his veins and he’s surrounded by powerful charms and herbs and shit all the time.

Stiles will never be a werewolf like Scott or Derek or most of his other friends, he’ll never have a banshee’s powers of foresight (however limited they are), and he’ll never be able to shoot a crossbow like Allison, but he can cast invisibility spells and curse bad guys and heal minor injuries (they’re still working on the major stuff) whenever he wants, and that’s pretty fucking awesome. Besides, sometimes Stiles wakes up in the morning and catches flashes of someone in the mirror who has his face but not his eye color, and he thinks that must mean something. Magic makes everyone who comes in frequent contact with it something a little other than human, but he’s got enough non-human friends to know that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

So Stiles is learning and studying and practicing whenever he gets the chance, lugging around ancient books that weigh a ton and bags full of stones and fabric and weird smelling herbs. In addition to his backpack, he’s taken to carrying with him a leather messenger bag with runes scorched into the sides of it (never let it be said that anything supernatural was ever subtle), and keeping all of his mystical arts and crafts supplies in it along with old spell books and cheat sheets for the hexes he hasn’t learned yet.

He’s sitting at one of the picnic tables in the schoolyard during lunch, and the contents of said bag are strewn all over the tabletop in front of him. The pack are scattered across the lawn nearby, lazing around in various states of contentment or agitation, depending on the person in question. Not for the first time, Stiles wonders what they look like to the rest of the school, always traveling everywhere together and congregating during free periods and lunch. Ever since they’d agreed to put aside their differences and form an actual pack about a year ago, once they’d realized there were far too many threats facing Beacon Hills for them to handle them as anything but a united front, the bunch of them are never apart.

Stiles scans the ridiculous looking spread of them and considers how different his life was a year ago compared to how it is now. They always move in groups of at least two or three at a time, depending on the school period or time of day, and altogether like this they must look like the weirdest fucking group of dumbass kids ever to grace the same space at once. Considering most of them didn’t hang out with one another until a short time ago, Stiles imagines that the whole school probably thinks they’ve joined a gang of some sort and now they’re all selling drugs in their spare time at the beck and call of the creepy but attractive older guy who likes to lurk in the parking lot and drive them places sometimes.

Lydia’s sitting with him at the table, translating a Latin passage he’d uploaded onto his tablet—way to bring witchcraft into the 21st century, hell yeah—that he hadn’t gotten around to working through yet, and she’s making humming noises as she goes, looking unfairly adorable the whole time. Jackson is leaning up against the leg of the table, texting Danny—the only member who’s currently absent, as he’d agreed to tutor freshmen in history during Friday lunch periods—and keeping up a snarky conversation with Erica and Boyd while they swap sandwich halves and discuss the merits of PB&J versus Peanut Butter and Nutella. Erica’s on the side of Nutella while the guys are firmly in favor of the classics, and it’s proving to be an interesting argument so far. Stiles prefers marshmallows with his peanut buttery goodness, but he’s not about to jump into this argument when he’s supposed to be weaving protective wristbands for the entire pack.

Allison is trying to teach Scott something about economics, but it’s clear that they haven’t made it past the first page of chapter fifteen and they aren’t going to anytime soon. They’re cuddled up together underneath the shade of a nearby tree and Allison keeps shoving pretzels in Scott’s mouth every time he makes a ridiculous comment and interrupts her, but they’re losing track of the lesson fast and it’s the kind of cute that sort of makes Stiles nauseous, so he makes a point to ignore them.

Isaac is asleep—or at least Stiles thinks he is—and he’s got a book open across his face and one hand stuck in a bag of cheeze-its. It’s stupidly endearing, and if Isaac hadn’t finally been reigning in his latent douchebag tendencies as of late, Stiles might hate him a little more for basically looking like a giant puppy every goddamn day.

Malia and Kira are giggling loudly somewhere off to his left, and he can see the daisy chain of flowers growing in Liam’s hair from where he’s sitting. The kid, to his credit, hasn’t done anything about the flower crown that’s been slowly appearing on his head since the girls had converged on him the moment the lunch bell rang twenty minutes earlier. For a guy with anger management issues, he puts up with the girls’ antics way better than expected, although Stiles suspects it has something to do with the fact that Malia and Kira have unofficially adopted him as their own since he was bitten not too long ago.

Aside from Danny the only person missing is Derek, and while Stiles knows it’s because he’s technically not allowed on school grounds since the guy is kind of scary looking and also in his twenties, he can’t help but wonder what Derek would be doing if he was here with them now. The pack gets restless without their alpha, as grumpy and surly as he can be sometimes, but Derek’s grown over the past few years, and he’s not the same person he was when he’d first threatened Scott and Stiles off his land all that time ago. He’s still Derek, still scowls at everything like inanimate objects personally offend him and he jerks Stiles around a lot, but he’s gentler now, less angry at the world and everything in it.

Derek takes his alpha duties seriously, doing his best to hand out advice and affection as best he can, but he struggles sometimes and butts heads with Scott or Jackson or Lydia, because the pack is nothing if not bull headed and chock full of dramatics. They all come out okay in the end, petty fights and sulking periods remaining only a blip on the friendship radar between them, and Stiles knows they’re all the better for it in the end. Right now, Stiles imagines that Derek would be sitting next to him on the wooden bench of the table or relaxing somewhere in the sun, stretching out lazily like the great big softy wolf that he really is.

He’d probably take Erica’s side in the peanut butter sandwich debate and throw things at Jackson until the beta wolf couldn’t take it anymore. They’d get into a wrestling match that Derek would win, and Jackson would come slinking back to Lydia, who might pat him on the head in sympathy but remind him that he was totally asking for an ass kicking, responding to Derek’s taunts like that. Derek would look smug and content with himself, and then he would grin at Stiles like the kid needed anymore proof that Derek was totally full of himself, his blunt white teeth—all human, for once—gleaming in the sun victoriously.

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s been staring off into space for almost five minutes until there’s a hand in his face, snapping its fingers daintily at him. He recognizes Lydia’s flower ring, the one with the sharpened petals that hurt like a bitch when they scratch you, and he blinks, sound rushing back into his ears like a wave of noise against his face.

“What?” he says, judging from the scowl on her face that she’s been asking him something and he hasn’t been answering.

“I said.” Lydia purses her lips and looks offended in a way that would make any grown werewolf shed tears, “Are these pages you photocopied in order or are we missing any? The translation stops making sense after the third page and starts a whole new sentence on the next before the one before it is finished.”

“Uh,” Stiles racks his brain and tries to remember which file she’s trying to translate for them, “is that the one from the Dark Ages that was written during a plague outbreak or the one that predates the fall of the Roman Empire?”

Lydia sighs like he’s a truly hopeless cause and seriously, Stiles only has so much fragile self esteem, “Dark Ages,” she says, snapping her gum, “the one by that guy who keeps talking about alchemy like it’s actually a thing that can be done, and not a pseudoscience developed by a bunch of money grubbing assholes with too much time on their hands.”

Stiles blows out a breath and nods quickly, because had she been alive a millennia or two ago, Lydia could have single handedly caused the fall of the Roman Empire all by herself, “Yeah, that’s one’s incomplete.” He says, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth as he tries to focus on his own work again, “Deaton didn’t really have a good reason as to why, but then again, Deaton never has a good reason for anything, so I can’t really be mad anymore.”

“Great,” Lydia murmurs, and goes back to scrolling through the text like it’s an enemy that she can conquer, and not a possibly meaningless account of supernatural experimentation that some guy tried and failed at over five hundred years ago.

Stiles glances back down at the half formed bracelet in his hands and then at the woefully small pile of his already finished work. He’s shit at hand weaving jewelry—big surprise there—and it’s taken him days to finish the two sad looking specimens gathering dust in the bag next to him. He has to weave beaded designs and bits of dried herbs into them, and the final products have to be soaked in a truly alarming concoction of stuff Stiles hasn’t even gotten around to making yet. The final touch involves attaching some sort of meaningful protection stone and saying a number of ritual chants over each one before they’re fully effective.

According to the book on magical accessories sitting open between himself and Lydia, the bracelets are supposed to _‘fortify the spirit and increase the wearer’s ability to sense danger, as well as protect them from basic hexes and any illusions cast by another magic user’_. Deaton had assigned him the project last week and Stiles had stubbornly resented the fact that witchcraft was apparently very heavy in the actual ‘craft’ department and not so much the ‘intense displays of light and badassery’ area. Seriously, the number of times he’s been to Michael’s in the past few months is starting to make his balls shrink, and he wonders if modern day witches are the actual sole reason the store is even still open in this kind of economy.

He’s working on Erica’s right now, and Kira’s and Liam’s bracelets are sitting finished and out of sight until he has to actually work the real magic. None of them are required to be fancy or anything that could qualify as a fashion statement, but Stiles has suffered enough humiliation at the hands of his own magic already—he’s not going to add to it by making the pack wear hideous arts n’ crafts projects made by none other than Stiles himself. It’s purely out of the goodness of his own soul that he doesn’t make Jackson’s something horrifyingly embarrassing looking or rotten smelling. He’s saving those lapses in judgment and self-preservation for when they really count.

Slowly, painstakingly, his fingers move through the motions of weaving the hemp strands (yes, hemp strands, shut up, don’t talk to him) as tightly as possible, having to glance back at the book more than once to fix a mistake or correctly place a bead. He’s chosen Derek’s family symbol—the triskele—as the design to be woven onto every wristband, but he’s mixing it up a little and changing the colors of the beads from person to person. It’s slow going, but it’s also a promising work in progress. One day Stiles will be a kick ass witch and a more than competent bracelet weaver, and then maybe scary monsters and bad people will start taking him seriously once he threatens them with his terrifying jewelry making skills.

By the time lunch period is over and the pack is scrambling to meet the warning bell, Stiles has made minor headway on Erica’s wristband and Lydia has moved on to scowling attractively at the tablet in front of her. Stiles knows she’ll keep reading through it during her next class and have enough info by the end of the school day to be able to tell him whether or not it’s useful in the slightest. From the way she’s chewed teeth marks into her pen, he’s going with about as useful as the half burned Druid recipes Derek has stashed away somewhere that Stiles refuses to go near. Fantastic.

Erica tries to question him about his progress on her bracelet on their way to French class with Isaac, and he complains to her (not for the first time) about how witchcraft is definitely not what it’s cracked up to be.

“It’s like the crappiest trade off ever,” he grouses as they slide into their seats, trying to be mindful of how loudly he’s talking, “On one hand, I’ll never have to get up to close my bedroom door again when my dad leaves it open, but on the other hand I have to learn ancient Latin and make friendship bracelets for all my packmates. I can’t even deal with it, it’s too weird.”

Isaac snorts from somewhere behind him and drops his bag on his desk, “You totally don’t have to make me a bracelet, dude. I promise I won’t cry if I don’t get one of your little un-birthday presents, it’s fine.”

Stiles turns in his seat and glares, because Isaac is taking pointers from Jackson today and Stiles is so not here for it, “Don’t even try to worm your way out this, man,” he huffs, not caring who hears him now, “Even Derek agreed to wearing one and what’s good enough for Derek Hale is totally good enough for you, so suck it up.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow at him and Stiles wants to punch him in his cute little face, “Really? Are you holding Derek as your highest standard of opinion, now?” Which is totally unfair because Isaac _worships_ Derek, meaning he’s the last person who should be underhandedly accusing Stiles of having any kind of misplaced affections for their alpha. Rude.

“I am not talking to you anymore for the rest of the day,” Stiles tells him, mostly serious, “As punishment for your blasphemous words and bad attitude. Feel the loss.”

Isaac snorts again and the fact that he manages to put so much sarcasm into one single noise speaks volumes about just how much time he’s been spending with Derek. Stiles’ punishment is totally justified. The bell rings and Erica, who stopped paying attention to them the moment he and Isaac started snarking at each other, puts away her phone and turns to whisper at Stiles.

“I can help you make the rest of the bracelets if you promise to provide snacks.”

And this is why Stiles loves her, even if she looks like she wants to eat him sometimes. Erica is addicted to red lipstick and HoHos, but she is an awesome friend when she wants to be. He hopes Isaac is taking pointers.

“I think Derek is doing the snack providing tonight,” he whispers back, because it’s Friday and that means training sessions and video game marathons and Derek pretending he has no idea why he lets teenagers sleep over at his house on a regular basis. It’s pretty awesome.

Erica grins, and her smile shows every single one of her teeth.

-.-

By the time school lets out for the day, Stiles is more than ready to find a couch and crash on it. Any couch. Even a chair would be nice, as long as it’s made out of something other than metal and unforgiving plastic. He slams his locker shut and brushes shoulders with Liam on his way out the front doors of the high school, unable to do more than slap the kid on the back when he beams up at Stiles in return.

“You’re coming to the pack sleepover tonight, right dude?” Liam asks, tugging at a strap on his backpack and sounding hopeful, “Scott said you were but Malia said you looked tired when she saw you in Econ earlier. We’re making subs and Boyd challenged Jackson to a Mario Kart marathon during free period, if that’s any incentive to show up.”

Stiles slings an arm around Liam and tugs him towards the Jeep, his car looking worn out but gloriously enticing in the afternoon sun, “The subs were my idea, little buddy,” he says, hoping the pack will let him take a nap instead of making him play witch-bait while they train today, “Besides, I never miss a pack meeting when there’s food and shenanigans to be had. You probably shouldn’t let Derek hear you call it a sleepover though. He still gets growly when people remind him he hangs out with teenagers and that he actually doesn’t run a real boot camp.”

Liam looks chastised for only a moment, his smile warring with the knowledge that his supposedly ferocious looking alpha is actually just a grumpybutt wrapped in muscle and leather, “As long as you’re coming, dude. I swear we’ll let you nap for at least an hour and I’ll try and distract Derek from making you train with us.”

Stiles laughs, because Derek is both incredibly observant and also unbelievably anal about all of his pack members getting in their sparring time, even the squishy non-werewolf ones, “Duly noted, kiddo,” he assures Liam, pulling open the door to the driver’s side and tossing his backpack in between the seats, “I’ve gotta have someone on my side when it comes to this whole defying Derek thing. I can’t man this rebellion all on my own.”

He expects a positive response, but instead he hears an uncomfortable sounding growl from behind him and he looks back in confusion. Liam’s control still isn’t great, but he’s been in a good mood today and there’s no reason for him to be getting all wolfy in the school parking lot. Jackson isn’t even here.

His confusion drains away instantly when he sees the person who’s managed to appear beside his car without his knowledge in the five seconds since he turned around. Derek’s leaning casually against the side window of the Jeep and he looks kind of smug, like he’s choosing to be happy about catching Stiles talking shit instead of being angry that he was undermining Derek’s authority in the first place. Hey, it’s progress. Small miracles, guys.

Liam looks mildly terrified and Stiles sighs inwardly. He should have known Derek would seek him out before he left school today. It’s Friday, which means the alpha’s almost always here to help drive some of the pack to his place for the night, and because this is Derek and he is Stiles, the dude goes out of his way to get all up in Stiles’ grill while he’s waiting for the rest of their people to make an appearance.

He waves a hand, trying for dissmisive, “Hi Derek, how’s it going?”

Derek just stares at him and Stiles shrugs it off, “Kill any innocent woodland creatures with your teeth? Threaten to eat someone’s granny and steal her homemade desserts? Growl at a toddler? No? Really?”

Derek snorts, and yep, Stiles knew that’s where Isaac was getting it from, “I don’t eat people, Stiles,” he says and wow. What a huge fucking revelation. Stiles is absolutely one hundred percent sure + shipping and handling that if Derek Hale actually ate humans then Stiles would have been the first to die. Probably. Scott’s definitely a close second, werewolf or no.

“What a huge fucking revelation,” he snipes back, because hey, in for a penny, “I’m going to sleep so much better tonight, knowing that I won’t wake up to you gnawing on my leg or feasting on my neck or something. Awesome.”

Liam makes a strangled noise and oh yeah, they have an audience, “You need a ride, man?” he asks, choosing to ignore Derek for a second. He’s a big boy. He can handle not having Stiles’ attention for like, half a minute.

“Umm, uh, yeah—s-sure that’d be great,” Liam stutters back, and makes a beeline for the passenger side of the Jeep like the weird tension between Stiles and Derek is going to come to life and swallow him whole. Stiles knows the feeling.

“What do you want?” he sighs exasperatedly, forehead thumping against the doorframe of the driver’s side, “Yes, I’m coming to the meeting and I’m staying the night and I will definitely spearhead the sub-making tonight once dinnertime rolls around. All I require is a nap before any actual cooking or socializing take place for the rest of the afternoon, capice?”

“What happened at school today?” Derek asks him, like he’s suddenly his fucking father or something. Stiles half expects him to ask about his grades or offer him an after school snack or whatever, even though in these particular circumstances that might look more like a creepy stalkerish sort of gesture rather than a paternal one. Ew.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Nothing, Derek. No one got in any fights and Malia passed her Econ exam, so I think we can consider today a success. I just need to crash for an hour or so, is that okay with you?” he might be acting a little more bitchy than usual today, but Derek’s just going to have to deal with it because a sleep deprived Stiles is a dangerous one.

“You look like you got trampled by the entire lacrosse team with Jackson in the lead,” and hey, look at that, Alpha Hale’s sense of humor is back at Stiles’ own expense. Wonderful, “You weren’t trying to use your magic in class again, were you? Deaton told me you’re still working on energy conservation and that spellwork tires you out if you haven’t been sleeping properly. I keep telling you that you don’t have to pull all-nighters for us if it means you never actually get to rest, Stiles.”

Ugh. Derek’s using real words and like, stringing them into real sentences today and he’s using those sentences to _lecture_ Stiles on useless topics like badly timed witchcraft and sleep, two things he has no authority to school Stiles on at all. He runs a hand over his eyes, suddenly a thousand times more exhausted.

“When have you ever known me to get a good night’s sleep for more than one day in a row, Derek?” he mutters, hoping he looks more menacing than he feels, “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“I’m worried about you,” Derek tells him, like that sentence alone isn’t enough to knock Stiles’ feet out from under him. He waits for the comment about how Derek’s only supposed to be looking out for him because he’s _pack_ , but it never comes and yep, there go his knees. God, he’s so fucking easy. Derek’s already pushing most of Stiles’ buttons by being hot and incredibly infuriating, but he doesn’t need his alpha to go and add being _concerned_ to that list, because Stiles is already completely screwed.

“I appreciate the concern,” Stiles croaks, when he thinks he’s gained reasonable control of his voice once more, “But there’s not much you can do for me at the moment unless you’re offering to be my own personal, on the spot pillow whenever I need one.” Just kidding. Stiles hasn’t regained control of his voice, he’s lost control of his mind. This conversation is steadily going downhill and he wants more than ever to be somewhere where there are no ridiculously attractive werewolves playing twenty questions or sneaking up behind him in parking lots.

Derek’s eyes get a little wide at that for maybe half a second, and then he pulls a magnificent bitchface, “You kick in your sleep,” he growls, and Stiles’ face goes from pasty white to bright red in about two seconds, “I’m not sure cuddling with you is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Stiles refuses to look at him anymore, and hopes to God that the rest of the pack shows up to save him as soon as physically possible because he will leave their furry asses here if they don’t. Then, because this can’t get any more awkward than it already is and because his brain to mouth filter is toast, Stiles opens his mouth again and promptly inserts his right foot.

“I thought you were worried about me,” he says into the fabric of his sleeve from where he’s hiding his face, “Friends make sacrifices for each other, Derek. We’re supposed to be friends.” He moves his arm from in front of his head and tries for earnest, “I could die of sleep deprivation and then you’ll never be able to live with yourself again knowing you could have prevented my death just by cuddling me to sleep at least once.”

Derek’s staring at him again and Stiles’ brain is still frantically trying to tell his mouth to stop moving while searching for Malia and Kira, who are supposed to be riding with him to Derek’s house. He’s going to kill them if they’re making out in the bathroom again instead of waiting until they leave school. He hates his friends. Every single one of them.

Derek gets this pinched expression on his face and Stiles officially wants to die. It would serve Stiles right, Derek giving him reason to die of embarrassment before he even graduates high school. He hopes Derek hates himself and that Stiles’ dad is the one who makes the arrest. He’s sure that Scott at least will testify against Derek in court if Stiles keels over right here from humiliation and unrequited teenage love.

“I’ll make sure no one bothers you when we get to the house,” Derek grants him, and okay, maybe Stiles is going to be able to avoid certain death today. Maybe. Great. Derek’s expression softens and Stiles’ heart goes pitter-pat, and he knows Derek probably heard, “I’ll tell them we have official business to discuss together and that no one’s allowed in my room for at least an hour.”

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to stare, and of course his brain and mouth choose now to fail him completely, so he’s left standing there like an idiot with his jaw hanging open as Derek lifts one corner of his mouth in something resembling an actual smile before striding away like he didn’t just sort of proposition Stiles of all people.

He hears the sound of Malia and Kira talking loudly as they emerge from the throng of cars around him, but he only registers the sound on a subconscious level right up until Kira’s waving a hand in his face.

Stiles snaps out of his alpha induced stupor and slides into the Jeep, where Liam is purposefully trying to look like he wasn’t listening in and is failing miserably. Stiles is so, so screwed.

“Dude,” he says, and his voice cracks in the air between them, “I think Derek just asked me out on a cuddle date.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know who bit Liam or why. Maybe it was Derek. Maybe it was another alpha and then Derek ate them. I don't care. Use your imagination and share your theories with me in the comments. Should I stop now or continue the madness? Only you can decide.  
> If you want to yell at me on Tumblr, then i'm at slimitgally.tumblr.com.


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